


And After All The Noise

by gravy_noodles



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, F/F, I'm Bad At Tagging, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Slow Burn, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravy_noodles/pseuds/gravy_noodles
Summary: Lena and Kara don't belong here, yet here they are.





	1. This Impossible Year

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen the finale yet, but the build-up already makes my heart hurt and I was feeling so stuff came spilling out. 
> 
> CW: people being in their own heads, bullying, and some graphic descriptions of anxiety/thought-spirals.

“You don’t _belong_ here.”

The words fall on seemingly deaf ears. They fall often, like rain and then like hail and then are aimed, bullets seeking a deathly home. The school day is only seven hours, but it feels like a lifetime spent in a one-woman war. Hallways turn into trenches and the bell is an air siren, warning you to take cover and hope that the blast doesn’t reach you. The first few months are the worst; everything is still so raw for everyone. You actually don’t go to school for the first month, opting to stay shut inside your mansion, with tutors and tomes. Public image of your family is horrible, which is putting everything lightly. Going to school would not only be foolish, at this point, it would be downright dangerous. It would be suicide, careless self-sacrifice that would amount to nothing.

Or so you’re told.

“You _don’t_ belong here.”

No, you don’t. Or maybe you do, and this purgatory is exactly where you are supposed to be. You’re supposed to pull paper wads out of your hair. You’re supposed to absorb the barbs and shards of names hurled at you. You’re meant to be isolated in the room full of people, none of whom care to tell you their names, much less find out that there’s more to you than yours.

What if there isn’t? What if this herd sees something in you, something in your family that they know is poison to the collective? Are you poison? Observational data points to yes, but keeping in mind the susceptibility of humans to persuasion, as well as the malleability of a high school opinion and your obvious pacifism in light of insult and injury to your person, there must be more to this. Human behavior can be quantified and rationalized, and you opt for that route.

Emotions are messy, and Lillian taught you to be neat.

“You don’t belong _here_.”

Sometimes you come home with bruises: a classmate shoves you too roughly against a locker, or you’re backed against the sharp corner of a desk. One time, you’re tripped so savagely and unexpectedly that when you hit the floor, your teeth click and you can feel the impact travel from your forehead to the back of your skull and into your toes. It is (probably) your first concussion, and though it’s not the most serious one you’ll receive, it still jolts you. It must, because you find it funny that bumping your head is the most jarring thing, not the public disgrace, not your brother’s rampage, not your entire goddamn family. You chuckle, because what else can you do? No, a fall and the spinning vision is what makes your entire being thrum with adrenaline, an uncomfortably sharp tickling beneath your skin.

You stuff that idea into a box; it can be unpacked later.

“ _You_ don’t belong here.”

You don’t, so you find different places to eat alone. The bleachers, the auditorium, the roof on occasion. The silence doesn’t bother you, nor does the fact that you’re eating alone. What irks you the most and gnaws away at you like the anxious tearing of your inner cheek is that your solitude was, though self-imposed, beyond your control.

It was Lex’s fault, in more ways than the grand jury had decided. He set off a rippling effect, shockwaves that stunned your family into even colder silence. He created a toxic haze around you, so thick that it permeated school, piano lessons, horseback riding, even car rides with Frank. _Frank_ , who used to let you ride up front and choose the radio station. Now you sit with a divider between you, silently.

He took your abilities to reason and to negotiate and to navigate the world around you and made them completely useless. What good was your rationality when your brother decided to attack an entire city? How could your chess prowess undo or heal all of that damage, pain, and loss? He took your faith and spat on your power and left you to clean up the mess.

You let him.

Did you let him? Was that, too, out of your control? You don’t like the thought, and you focus on eating instead.

“ _You don’t belong here._ ”

It gets to be too much, sometimes. You will at least acknowledge that, even as you neatly pack away each and every emotional response to a dusty, dark corner of your mind. You don’t deserve this, and logically you know it, but the constant barrage is like rushing floods of water bearing down on the mental dam you’ve created. Erosion is one hell of a phenomenon, and sometimes you can feel it leaking through, soaking into the tremble of your lips or the way your nails bite into your palm or the copper on your tongue as you bite your tongue, your cheek, your lips to keep from escalating the needless confrontation.

In those moments, you cling to one resolve: _I will make this better._

The thought of it alone buoys you through the stares and whispers. It takes the bombed out buildings of your former life and transforms them into magnificent highrises of the future you can help build. You already have a plan worked out, and you know exactly how to achieve it. You just have to get through all of this fallout, first.

“You don’t belong here.”

It’s said in a different tone, which is what you first catch. What is said is only a small fraction of what a person means; the tone with which they convey their message holds a bulk of the meaning. You've grown adept at hearing the shifts and nuances as well as the content. Obviously you don’t belong here, curled up with your head protected next to the bins behind your school.

Secondly, you notice that there is a hand extended towards you – to help you up? What? Who would..?

And then, as you look up, your third moment happens: she’s above you, and she’s radiant. Her face is furrowed with concern, framed in gold, and you worry, distantly, that her glasses might fall off of her face if she leans over any more than she is. You take her hand. You don’t trust it’s warmth – but you _do_. You know this the moment your skin makes contact, even if you don’t _want_ it to be the truth.

“May I..?” She asked, tentatively gesturing towards you. It dawns on you that your appearance is less than immaculate, and you begin dusting away at yourself. The tear in your jumper can be fixed with an authoritative pat, right? Not one to forget your manners, you mumble your apology in the same sentence as your thanks, not caring as your mother’s snide voice chides you not to negate one with the other.

“It’s no problem, gosh, I really hope you’re okay, they were so mean and it was only just you, and I couldn’t just let them bully you like that, that’s really not alright,” she rambles, fixing her glasses and glaring slightly – adorably – in the direction where several of your classmates had run. She returns her attention to you, stepping closer but not too close, smiling gently and softly squeezing your hand – you blush a little to realize both that you hadn’t let go, and that you didn’t quite wish to.

“I’m Kara. What’s your name?” The absurdity of the moment makes you want to laugh. This could be a joke; your gut tells you it isn’t. It’s been a while since it spoke to you, or at least unclenched enough to communicate. You listen.

“My name’s Lena.”


	2. Sea of Sound

_Rrivzha-odh rrip ukep zehdh._

The thought wafts through your mind, a noxious gas poisoning your half-hearted attempts to fit your mouth around the flat, foreign sounds of this new planet. The words feel clumsy and don’t flow like your native _kryptahniuo_. The grammar is choppy and alien and you _don’t like it_. Kal-El should have been teaching you, but he left you in someone else’s care. The Earth people who care for you – the Danvers – are patient, sitting with you and sounding out difficult words, answering your broken questions as best they can. They don’t reprimand you when you get so frustrated that you curse and accidentally fire beams into the sheet you’re writing on. The powers are new to you, and to them, and you feel shame in the random firings, the multiple crumpled doorknobs, and the way you speed too swiftly through the house. There’s a lack of control that you are painfully aware of and unaccustomed to; even more prevalent as you grapple with this mongrel-tongue they call “English.” There is a burn of humiliation as you trip over phrases, ask Eliza or Jeremiah or Alex to slow down so you can understand; you are Kara Zor-El, heir to the Zor-El legacy and favored for a position within the Science Guild. You know calculus like you know breathing, and can recite your planet’s history from Rao’s gift to its demise. Your intellectual capacity is limitless. You are Kara Zor-El, brightest spark of the El family and destined for greatness.

At least, you _were_.

Then it all came crashing down, literally, as Krypton collapsed in on itself. You and Kal-El were now heirs to space dust and memories. A sharp, surgical stab of sorrow opens your chest as you remember your mother and father, standing beside you in the hangar as your home burned. The words you are attempting to navigate blur as tears fill your eyes, only minutely affecting your ability to comprehend the written letters. You don't understand. You don’t understand any of it.

_Rrivzha-odh rrip ukep zehdh._

The other children make fun of you. This is new, and at first you think it is general mirth, that you are meant to laugh along to some unknown joke that everyone else understands. It is not until Alex exasperatedly explains that _you_ are the joke, that the laughter is directed towards you and your strange accent and your ignorance at American (and Earth) customs. It angers you: if someone is the object of amusement, why are they the last to know? What necessitates that type of cruelty? What kind of green comet did you pass, that you must endure this? You speed away, not sure whether beams or tears are burning in your eyes. In the woods, you shatter tree trunks and boulders, screaming yourself raw as you take out your rage and sadness and loss. When you return, Eliza sits with you and calmly listens to your half-English frustration, tries to soothe your stress with this hot leaf juice called “tea.” It reminds you of your mother. The listening, the discussion; this, you understand. Eliza presents you with something called a “journal,” explaining that it can be helpful to write down your thoughts and experiences. She adds that she, too, “journals,” and that it allows her to organize her feelings and the changes her life has brought to her.

“You are one of the most wonderful ones,” she says softly, smiling warmly at you and tentatively reaching for your hand. You are so scared you’ll hurt her, but you cannot help engulfing her in a tight hug. You spend all night writing furiously, circles and lines flowing together as you reason your way through the bullying words. _Irstun rrip tulim._

_Rrivzha-odh rrip ukep zehdh._

That is a fact that you know. You can work with facts; facts are known entities and quantities. You try harder to fit in, to temper your strength and speed. Months, as they are called, pass. In school, you pass the maths and sciences with flying colors, and although history and English still present difficulties, you make an effort to engage. You want to know about this new place, these Kryptonian-looking people. The cracks about your accent bother you, still, making you conscious of how your _r_ s roll and your difficulties with _th-_ sounds. You try to mimic Alex’s American accent and speech pattern, but all that earns you is her annoyance.

“Stop imitating me! It’s not funny!”

“But…the others, they laugh,” you state, feeling your lip tremble. Facts are facts, but you still _feel._ Alex, to her credit, looks taken aback at your words.

“They still tease you for that?”

“Each day, but now it is less.”

“Because you’ve been practicing…” Alex trails off, considering something.

“Yes. If I sound like you, then they are not so…mean?” You guess at the word. “I do not want to…tease. I want to fit in. If it is okay, will you help me?”

She softens and stares at you for a long moment.

“Okay. Fine, I’ll help you, but you can’t tell anyone.” You nod enthusiastically, though you understand Alex’s need to maintain her – what was the word? Her reputation. Many on Krypton were conscientious of how events and reactions would appear; social codes must be upheld. You would uphold this Earth-code.

_You do not belong here._

Time passes, and you assimilate more. Your accent blends into something more American, and your English vastly improves with Alex’s help. You can almost pretend that you’re a Normal, Regular Human of Earth. Then, one day, a bus overturns and catches fire. You know that you must maintain your secret, but you cannot turn away from the cries for help. You were raised by one of the best judges in Kandor, and on all of Krypton – you have the power to do something, therefore you ought to just _do it._ Afterwards, you feign ignorance as Alex and Eliza take in your dirty, smoky appearance and berate you for almost revealing yourself.

_You do not belong here._

It doesn’t bother you as much as it used to. You go through high school, navigating conversations and idioms with increasing ease even as you find yourself doodling _kryptahniuo_ in the margins of your notes, your journal, even your shoes at one point. The fear of losing your home rumbles beneath the surface of your assimilation to Earth customs; you have to keep it alive somehow. The Danvers’ help: during game nights, you find yourself chattering away about Kryptonian versions of entertainment, which then sparks a discussion about Kryptonian society. Eliza, Jeremiah, and increasingly, Alex, ask you many questions, and their interest excites you. Oral history is history, you recall from lessons on both Earth and Krypton, and you are, now, the foremost historian of your people.

People still make fun of you, but it is no longer because of your accent or your English. Your unwillingness to join in the high school tradition of ostracizing, of meanness for the sake of emoting, means that you are shunned. It allows you to fully understand the Earth term, “irony.” The people your age are cruel, but often the cruelty hides their own insecurities and fears, a realization that gives you more clarity and peace with yourself. You have already lost everything; what more do you have to fear?

_You don’t belong here._

It’s the first thought you have when you see the dark-haired girl, on the ground and curled in a protective ball. You saw the group of teenagers first, all focused on a shape near the trashcans. Their taunts and jeers were not new to you, but bullying was not something you could stomach. When your peers began shoving and kicking, your second thought is a strong, _No._ It takes you maybe three moves to scare the bullies, plus you might have broken the leader’s fist with your face.

You turn your focus onto the person in front of you. The phrase that’s been repeating itself at the back of your mind tumbles out of your mouth, an entirely different context shifting its meaning into something more comforting. You offer a hand to help her up, and catch yourself when intense green eyes snap up to assess you. Those eyes are guarded, wary, but spark with awareness. She accepts, and thanks you. Your heart hurts a little as she adds an apology to her gratitude and you hurry to make sure she knows that her situation _was not her fault_. She didn’t force the others to gang up on her, to corner her, to kick her when she was literally down. You glare towards them as you speak, adjusting your glasses. It then hits you that you haven’t let go of her hand; moreover, you don’t quite want to. She hasn’t broken contact, either, so you try to convey security with a very, very, very tempered squeeze. Alex and Eliza do this when you hurt, maybe it will help this girl.

“I’m Kara. What’s your name?” tumbles out of your mouth, finally easily, and you smile softly.

“My name’s Lena.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRANSLATIONS:  
> Rrivzha-odh rrip ukep zehdh. >> You don't belong here.  
> kryptahniuo >> Kryptonian (language, culture)  
> Irstun rrip tulim >> You'll have to adapt (lit. change)
> 
> Language is friggin' incredible. I'm thinking of adding a second part to this, because I put "slow burn" in the hashtags and it's only fair to get the second part of that phrase going, eh?  
> Chapter title from "Sea of Sound" by Isaac O.  
> What do y'all think?


End file.
